How to Find Peace at the End of the World by Saro Yen Read Free Book Online Page A

retrieve the battery, none the worse for wear and take a few revolvers and handguns and boxes of ammunition accordingly.

With these in hand I go back out of the store. I can feel the doubts and the raw emotions of the morning fading. I feel that hopelessness and fatalism evaporate as I walk out into the unnaturally bright winter morning. Instead, in my core I feel the sogginess replaced by a steel resolve and an itch to get these things in my hands loaded and shooting. I park the carts beside the Beast and don’t even bother loading the contents. Instead, I sit on the tailgate of the truck and read the little gun care, loading and shooting guide sponsored by the NRA that I had also grabbed. Quickly bored, I toss it aside and simply take the box of nine mil ammo and begin loading the cartridge of one of the handguns. A few of the rounds fall out before I realize I am loading the shells into the wrong caliber gun. I retrieve the book and read a few more passages. Confidence bolstered again I pick up the right caliber handgun and begin loading the nine mil shells. I put the cartridge into the handle and try to slap it in to the gun like I’ve seen in so many movies and TV shows but it falls back out into my lap before I can do it. I grab the cartridge again and ease it into the gun. Who knew being a badass was in actuality so complicated?

I raise the gun and extend my arm and take aim at the windshield of the Dodge Charger in the next parking aisle over. I center an imaginary dot in the center of the windshield in the groove of the gun’s sights and pull the trigger. Click. I put the gun down carefully and pick the book back up and examine it a bit more. Then I pick the gun up again and attempt to cock it. Attempt one is limp and the top part of the gun snaps back and nips the tip of my finger. Oww. I go slow with attempt two, wary of shooting the tip of my foot off. I stop in the middle of attempt two realizing that remaining seated Indian style on the back of a pickup truck while cocking a loaded gun is probably grounds for losing your bad-ass license or something, in addition to being a good way to shoot your own balls off. I stand up and give it another go and this time the gun cocks successfully. I take aim at the Charger’s windshield again and pull the trigger.

Woo. I am not prepared. There’s a lot more kick on the gun than I had suspected and I miss the top of the car altogether. Downwind, at the edge of the parking lot, the side of the clock gable of a bank building shatters into a million pieces. I cock the gun again and take aim for the center of the Charger’s window. I pull the trigger and the gun snaps back again and it’s as if things go in slow motion: the car window seems to spiderweb with veins over its surface and a depression turns into a black hole, the drawn representation of a singularity as the entire surface collapses into tiny shards. I woop and holler until my throat is hoarse. I take the gun back up and empty the clip into the cars in the parking lot. Twelve more shots and half the cars in the lot have smashed windows and the car alarms are going again. Crap.
    But worth it. Easily.
    I take some shells and load up the shotgun next. I make sure to rest the stock against my shoulder and pull the trigger. I almost lose my balance and go flying backwards. I don’t hit a damn thing, that’s for sure. I decide that leaning forward while I aim down the gun is a better bet and it is. I and spend a good hour peppering the hoods of the alarm blaring cars from a distance until they shut off. The Ram is the toughest, and by my count takes fifteen shots before it’ll shut up.
    I make sure everything is unloaded before I wrap it all up in a canvas bag from the store. I put it all in the small seats at the back of the Beast’s cab. Before leaving to go back into the store I double back. I take two revolvers out of canvas bag and load them up again. I stow one away in the driver side door pocket of